


Undeserved

by 221b_hound



Series: Unkissed [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Arguing, Couch Cuddles, Cranky John, Domestic Fluff, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Schmoop, Sherlock Gets It Wrong, They are also apparently 12 years old, They are professionals damnit, petty revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-03 13:05:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1070787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is having an enormous strop. Sherlock is fairly annoyed himself. At John. For being Unprofessional in the Workplace. But Sherlock has it all wrong. There's always <em>something</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undeserved

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [被错怪的](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2261289) by [shawnordaisy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shawnordaisy/pseuds/shawnordaisy)



> And the schmoop just keeps on coming...

From the sofa, Sherlock pretended not to be watching John having his massive strop. He had to pretend quite hard. John’s strop was not quiet.

John expressed his temper by yanking open the cupboard with an aggravated hiss and letting the door whine on its hinges and the handle crack against its neighbour. His ire could be heard in the ceramic clatter of cups as he grabbed two and then thumped them on the counter. It was in the crash and muted clatter of the cupboard door being slammed shut again.

Further iterations of his mood were there in the short, sharp motions of turning the tap on too high, the gush of water pressure as it filled then spurted out of the lip of the kettle, the thud of the kettle going back onto the bench and John’s muttered curses as he tried three times to jam the plug back into the base of the kettle. It was even in the snick of the power switch being stabbed on.

It was also, a few minutes later, in the stream of invective that resulted when John tried to aggressively pour boiling water into the mugs, only to splash scalding drops onto the back of his hand. Moments later, the tap was on again, the sound like an angry torrent as John shoved the abused skin under the cold flow.

“John.”

John kept on cursing and didn’t reply.

“John.”

“I’m _fine_.”

“I didn’t ask if you were _fine_ ,” Sherlock snarled back. Wonderful. So much for ignoring the strop.

“You didn’t ask me _anything_.”

“Of course I didn’t _ask_. It’s not as though I didn’t _know_.” They were no longer talking about John’s hand.

The pipes creaked as John twisted the water off with as much force as he’d been using on everything else since returning to the flat.

“No, of course not. No secrets from _you_ , are there?”

“Very few,’ Sherlock replied archly, “Though the reason this is _my_ fault still eludes me.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “I did not say it was your fault. I never said that.”

“You didn’t say _much_ ,” Sherlock pointed out, “You tried to hold my hand at a crime scene and when I wouldn’t comply, you glared at me as though I had done something heinous.”

John huffed a sharp breath. “Fine. Yes. Right. And you claim to know why I did that.”

“You felt offended by Masterton’s uncouth observation about us. Then you decided that my feelings would be hurt by your taking offence, and attempted to alleviate my imagined sleight by _holding my hand_ at a _crime scene_.”

“You insufferable prick.”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re dead wrong, you arse.”

“I am _not_ wrong.”

“I come from both a medical and military background, Mister Genius. I do have a fucking _clue_ about appropriate workplace behaviour, most especially when the workplace in question is strewn with corpses. I was _not_ trying to hold your hand at a _fucking crime scene_ like you were some delicate _flower_ about to go into a decline because I was offended at an _offensive fucking comment_ from a halfwit.”

“What, then, was the attempted _hand-holding_ about?”

“It wasn’t…. fine. Fine. Ask me the question you think you know the answer to.”

Sherlock’s teeth ground together. “This is ridiculous.”

“Yes, utterly. Ask me the fucking question.”

“Why does it offend you when we overhear people assuming that you are the _bottom_ in this relationship, since the term can hardly be applied to our activities in any case?”

“Our _activities_. Nice, Sherlock. That’s lovely. That’s what they are, are they?”

“I am simply…”

“Going for objective terminology, as you do, when you’re out of your…” John stopped abruptly. He pulled at his lower lip, the way he did when he was considering a new thought.

“Back up,” he said after a moment, “You said you knew the answer. What do you imagine my answer was going to be to that question?”

Sherlock’s gaze was piercing, as though he was trying to peer right through John’s forehead into his thoughts, and was for the first time failing.

“You are a medical professional and a former soldier, and perceptions of a ‘bottom’ in queer relationships imply submission, and to some that implies weakness. Being a _nancy_. That perception, regardless of the actual relationship dynamic, makes you uncomfortable. More than uncomfortable. Angry.”

“And then _you_ thought that _I_ thought you’d be upset, at me being upset at being perceived as submissive to you.” John started to laugh. “Because, yeah, that’s _so_ the dynamic here.”

Despite himself, Sherlock’s mouth twitched in the start of an answering laugh. He quelled the impulse, ruthlessly.

“You do submit…”

“Is that how you see it?”

“… No. I…”

“Because it could be perceived that I just sit back like a smug bastard and let you do all the work so I can get my rocks off.”

“That is hardly the case.”

“We agree on something, then. Good.”

“What _is_ your answer to the question, then?”

“Mine? Mine is that I’m _not_ offended by being thought of as the bottom. I’m not even particularly offended that some people laugh about that. They’ve got no idea at all what an excellent love life I have. More fool them.”

“Then…”

“What you usually miss, because you have quite rightly walked away by then, or somehow managed to not hear them, or to delete the garbage they spout after the fact, is the follow-up suggestion that clearly I am the _top_. I am _offended_ , Sherlock, by people offensively suggesting that this is clearly the case, because how else do I keep you on a _leash_? I’m _offended_ by those smug fuckers smirking about what I must do to make you shut up when we’re at home. I’m _offended_ that they talk like you are some kind of unruly sex pet that has to be _tied_ up and _shut_ up and made _tame_.” John was breathing hard, ire on the rise once more.

Sherlock blinked. He was aware that some people had this opinion, of course. He never spared it much thought. As though the opinion of those idiots was the slightest bit important.

He almost asked John why it mattered, that morons said that about him, about them, and stopped himself in time. He knew why it mattered to John, now. But still. John shouldn’t get himself worked up over idiots in this manner.

“What they think doesn’t matter,” he said crisply, “The opinions of morons should not affect you so deeply. I don’t care what they think. You shouldn’t either.”

“I _care_ ,” said John, “Because they lack respect, for both of us, in our _workplace_. I _care_ because when we let that shit pass, they look at _you_ like they know your secret weakness, when they fucking _don’t,_ as though they are in some measure better than you when they most emphatically _are not_. I _care_ because…” John let out a whoosh of air. “I miss the army sometimes. Insubordination charges and latrine duties for six weeks would be so satisfying right now. Especially for Masterton, the prig.”

He straightened and looked Sherlock in the eye. “I know it doesn’t really bother you. It’s good. Really. I’d hate for you to be upset by them. But I can’t… I can’t wash it away. I can’t ignore it. I want to punch every one of them in the face for their half-arsed fuck-wittery. I can’t do that either. Not on a regular basis, anyway, and it _so_ needs a regular fucking basis. I’d have to wear special gloves to protect my knuckles and get more physio for my shoulder. I’d spend all my time in the lock-up on assault charges, and having to plead Guilty, when I’d really want to plead Fuck Yes, Guilty, Do You Want To Make Something Of It?”

Sherlock was eyeing John speculatively now.

“So what was the hand-holding about?”

“I told you. I wasn’t trying to hold your hand.” John’s look of irritation was suddenly lightened by a grin lifting one side of his mouth.

“Then…”

“I was… attempting to show you my alternative to punching Masterton’s beautifully crafted teeth through the back of his artfully coiffed head.”

“By…?”

John put his hand in his pocket and drew out an electronic key emblazoned with a Mercedes symbol.

“I nicked his car key.”

“Oh.”

John reached into his other pocket and drew out an expensive current-model phone. “And his phone.”

“You were trying to slip me his key.”

“You said you wanted to know what kind of car he drove. He told us it was a Prius. I knew that _you_ knew he was lying. I just wanted to…prove it for you.”

“You’ve been practising,” said Sherlock, voice full of warmth.

“I have,” John agreed, “This is where my love for you has taken me. I practise pickpocketing to better support my beloved in pursuit of his career and to pay back wankers for dissing my honeybee. I’m afraid you’ll ask me start grave robbing for you next, because I appear to have no limits when it comes to wanting to please you.”

“You told me you wouldn’t pick pockets. That it was _illegal_. That you would kill a man for me if circumstances warranted it, but you’d be damned if you’d be banged up for petty theft.”

“I did say that, didn’t I? Aren’t I the idiot, then?”

“And the phone?”

“Oh, that was just a treat for _me_. Because the man’s an enormous turd and I meant to throw his phone in the Thames at the first opportunity.”

“Only I didn’t let you get an opportunity.” Because he had scowled at John when John had reached out – not to take his hand but to place the car key in it – and then glared at John as though his mawkish presence was an affront. And then Sherlock had stalked off, in an enormous snit, over John being so inappropriately _sentimental_ while they were _working_.

“So, you see, you _don’t_ know everything.” John, putting the items back in his pockets, appeared quite satisfied with his conclusion.

Sherlock was enormously satisfied with it, too. He was downright _delighted_. “No. I don’t. You’re right, John. There’s always _something_.”

“Did I just hear you say I was right?”

“Furthermore, I shall apologise. I am sorry, John.”

That made John laugh. “Git,” he said fondly, but he was clearly pleased.

“ _John_ ,” said Sherlock, his voice thrumming with all the meanings for _John_ he knew. _Sweetheart. Beautiful. Precious. Darling. Extraordinary. Genius. Mine._

“Tea’s brewed,” said John with a grin, “Go sit down.”

Sherlock sat down and waited until John had deposited both cups of tea on the coffee table before reaching up and placing his hands on John’s waist. John looked down at him, all ill temper gone, and smiled. He brushed his fingers against Sherlock’s cheekbones.

“Sit,” suggested Sherlock with a gentle tug. John laughed but allowed Sherlock to pull him forward. In moments he was sitting, bum against Sherlock’s knees, his own knees either side of Sherlock’s thighs.

“It doesn’t offend me to be thought of as the bottom,” said John again, leaning forward to press a kiss to Sherlock’s brow. He sat back again. “It doesn’t offend me to be that, either. Do you know why?”

Sherlock cupped John’s cheek in his hand and smiled. “Because I… surrender to you as well. It has nothing to do with the nature of our acti…” He stopped himself and smiled. “It has nothing to do with how we have sex.” He frowned slightly, feeling that the term was still too clinical. “How we make love.”

“That’s right.” John slid forward on Sherlock’s lap, his knees now wrapped close around Sherlock’s hips and their stomachs and chests pressed warmly together. John’s arms were wound around Sherlock’s shoulders now, and one hand played with Sherlock’s curls while the other stroked Sherlock’s spine. From this position, he only had to lean forward a little to kiss Sherlock.

With a hum of approval, Sherlock wound his arms around John and pulled him even closer. They kissed for a good long while. When they parted, Sherlock kept an arm around John’s waist to keep him from moving, leaned forward and picked up one of the cups of tea from the coffee table. This he handed to John, leaned forward for the other, then leaned back, tea in one hand, lap full of John, and a thoughtful look in his eye.

John sipped his tea from his eminently comfortable location and raised an eyebrow at Sherlock.

“Masterton really was very disrespectful,” Sherlock announced, then took a sip of tea.

“He was. Very.” John leaned over to place a tea-warmed kiss on Sherlock’s brow.

“That phone really is very expensive.” He kissed John’s throat. “Those keys are also hellishly costly to replace.” He lifted his hand from John’s waist to fish the phone out of John’s pocket and hold it between them.

“So I understand.” John took the electronic key out of his pocket again. “It was probably a bit childish, pinching them like that. Throwing them in the Thames would be terrible for them.”

“All that water,” agreed Sherlock, “Very bad for them.”

“It’s possible we should… give them back.”

“Particularly as he was, technically, the victim in this case.”

“Technically.” John took another sip of tea and pulled a face. “This tea has gone cold. I should make a fresh one.”

“A fresh brew would be welcome,” said Sherlock.

John held up his unsatisfactory tea and dropped the Mercedes key into it. He peered into the cup and frowned. Just as he twisted to look for something on the table, Sherlock handed him a screwdriver they’d left during some recent bit of work. John accepted it with a smile, poked it vigorously into the cup until he heard plastic crack, then stirred the contents carefully.

“May I?”

“Of course.” John withdrew the screwdriver and held the slightly dripping tool up while Sherlock first smacked the glass of the phone sharply against the point, then dropped the damaged phone into his own mostly full mug of tea. He lowered the screwdriver in after it. The concoction made a pleasing, wet, crunching sound at the bottom of the cup.

“Oops.”

John giggled. Sherlock snorted with laughter in reply.

“Christ, we are worse than 12 year olds,” John said, still giggling.

“I love you,” said Sherlock, putting first his, then John’s cup on the table.

They resumed kissing and didn’t stop until Mrs Hudson came in with the post and a batch of just-baked mixed biscuits. They didn’t even move, only waiting until she said goodbye and left ( _with notes for the kaffeeklatsch,_ Sherlock had whispered, making John giggle some more) whereupon John nestled against Sherlock’s shoulder and nuzzled his throat, while Sherlock ran his hands up and down John’s back and arms and contemplated the incomparable loveliness of having a lap full of John Watson.

Much later, after fresh tea, more kissing in the kitchen and Sherlock eating five of the biscuits while John chided him for scoffing all the choc chip ones (Sherlock deigned to kiss him heartily after that, to ensure that John didn’t miss out on the taste of them, at least) they went out.

They didn’t go far. Just as far as the boating lake in Regent’s Park, where they disposed of the evidence in seven separate locations and wandered home again.

Holding hands.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Undeserved [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6652069) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




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